The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of Stone's baton against the solid silver bars was the only alarm clock the subjects needed. Every strike sent a shower of blue sparks dancing across the metal, accompanied by a low-frequency hum that vibrated deep in the prisoners' teeth.
Inside the cells, the reaction was instantaneous. Bodies jerked upright; people clutched thin blankets to their chests, eyes snapping open as they scrambled back toward the cold concrete walls. They stared at the figure stalking past their bars. It wasn't the usual morning guard. It was Stone. He was cruel, a man of practiced violence who found genuine enjoyment in their torment.
By the time Stone reached the end of the hall, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life with a surgical white glare. The light illuminated the thick white lines painted exactly one foot away from each cell—a stark reminder of the barrier these "pets" were never allowed to cross.
Thrummm. The mechanical locks disengaged. The prisoners stepped out, huddled in their white prison uniforms, a series of black numbers labeling the back of each shirt.
"Come, come on!" Stone rasped, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Ash spilled onto the concrete floor beneath him. He chuckled to himself, mocking their wolf lineage with a guttural grunt.
All the cell doors stood open except for two: the real threats. Stone turned his head, teeth clenching on his cigar as he stared at his newest prize. Subject 28 was proving to be more irritable than the previous beasts; no amount of silver had made him compliant. Stone knew they would break him eventually; this one just needed more time.
Inside his cage, Jeremy lay on his stiff cot with one arm behind his head. He stared at the cigar hanging from Stone's lips. Humans. He hadn't expected to be captured by such pathetic little creatures. But if the murmurs he'd heard before his capture were true, the new Queen would find them. She would have to.
Jeremy watched the line of prisoners organize, careful not to let even a toe stray over the white line unless they wanted to be "barbecued." When the line moved, Jeremy's eyes narrowed as Mickey walked past. He couldn't understand how the humans hadn't noticed Mickey was a wolf. He was part of Jeremy's pack. While Jeremy was the rogue Alpha of the North, the truth was written in every muscle of Mickey's body. So far, the facility only deemed Jeremy and the rogue across the hall to be threats. Mickey was a wolf hiding in human skin, and somehow, the humans were blind to it.
Mickey gave Jeremy a subtle nod of respect. He had been here for two months, and there was still no sign of his Jamie. He had hoped they had scooped her up—his black-haired, blue-eyed beauty. He missed the way tears would sparkle in her eyes.
The line filed through the hallways, passing guards and cameras until they reached the mess hall. Dozens of tables were aligned inside a large white circle. None of them were allowed to cross that line once inside. Like every other barrier, the floor was fortified with electrodes. A single show of aggression, and they would all feel the currents surging through their bodies.
Mickey's eyes drifted around the tables. His gaze locked onto Gloria, a girl with brown hair and blue eyes. Her body quivered and shook with a violent, rhythmic tremor whenever he drew near—a physical manifestation of terror that acted like a beacon, drawing his predatory focus straight to her. Mickey approached her, his presence looming.
"You smell exactly as I remember," he hummed, leaning in until his nose grazed the column of her throat.
Gloria flinched, her body freezing in fear. She felt completely immobile, too terrified even to scream. His hot breath felt like fire blazing across her throat—an unwelcome heat she wished would just go away.
"Do you remember when we used—" Mickey began, his voice a low, gravelly hum as he pulled her brown hair away from her face. He hated the color; he wanted to see those blue eyes paired with pale skin.
"I don't know—" Gloria gasped, cutting him off in a frantic plea.
Before she could finish her sentence, Mickey's large palm slammed over her mouth and nose, crushing the rest of her words back into her throat. Gloria panicked, her eyes shooting open on instinct. Her hands gripped his wrist, scratching at the skin. Please, someone look, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. There are cameras everywhere. He can't do this here. The weight of his palm was terrifying, but the lack of intervention from the guards was worse.
Under the cover of her hair, Mickey's fingernails began to lengthen, digging into her scalp.
I have to keep it together, Mickey thought, forcing his breathing to remain shallow and rhythmic. He allowed his nails to retreat back beneath his skin. Don't shift. Just another defective.
"Shhh!" Mickey smiled as her tears coated his palm.
In the observation room, Larkin pressed his walkie-talkie while staring at the screen.
"Subject 29 is showing aggression towards Subject 14. Should I intervene?" Larkin asked. His voice was flat, devoid of any concern for the girl, but this place was getting harder to ignore. He had taken this job because it was easy. It had been better when the lab was empty, a place of possibilities without any subjects. Now, they all just looked like kids to him. He hadn't truly understood what they were doing until they found the first mutated human that could transform. But these ones weren't the same. From what he'd heard, they just held the same genomes—whatever that meant. He had fought to protect his country; he never imagined it would amount to this.
Exiting the observation room, Larkin circled the exterior of the white line. He waited for the response from the lab, continuing to play chicken with the silence. Seconds felt like hours until the radio buzzed. "Intervene. Bring Subject 29 up to the testing area."
Entering the white circle, Larkin didn't get to speak before Mickey stood up, hands held in surrender.
"We're just talking!" Mickey said, the smile on his lips stretched wide as if inviting Larkin to ignore Gloria's tear-stained face.
"Move," Larkin ordered, guiding him toward the testing area.
Mickey sat strapped into the chair. Dr. Breyer walked a slow circle around him. Suddenly, Mickey's skin rippled. It was a fluid, wave-like flinch—as if his entire body were trying to shake off an irritant.
"What was that?" Breyer asked, leaning in close. His gloved hand reached out to feel for abnormalities.
"I'm cold," Mickey said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Temperature is normal, Doctor," an intern noted.
"The skin doesn't move like that," Breyer muttered.
"I'm not human. Maybe my skin doesn't move the same, right?" Mickey said, attempting to distract them from the telltale signs of his wolf spirit's unrest.
"Subject 29, let's discuss your fixation," Breyer pressed. "You consistently target subjects with black hair and blue eyes. From a biological standpoint, we are looking for the root of this selection. Is this an instinctual drive toward a specific genetic marker? Do you perceive blue eyes as a sign of a more stable cellular mutation?"
"They always scream the loudest," Mickey smirked.
"Answer the question," Breyer insisted. "Is this a mental health manifestation—an obsessive-compulsive attachment—or are you reacting to a chemical signal sent by the mutation in your blood?"
"Who told you I was a biologist or a fucking chemist?"
Becoming irritated, Dr. Breyer looked to the guard in the corner, nodding for him to use the baton. Mickey's eyes flicked to the man. He couldn't risk an electric shock triggering a partial shift.
"Okay, okay! Let's calm down!" Mickey leaned forward as far as the straps allowed. "You want to know about the big bad wolf? I'll tell you. I know everything. Unlike the others... I was raised by wolves."
"Raised by?" Breyer's eyes widened. "Are you suggesting a social hierarchy between those whose mutation has fully manifested and those whose cellular structure remains dormant?"
"The Defectives," Mickey said. "That's the name for the trash you've been collecting. The ones who have the blood but can't shift. They're bottom-feeders." Mickey relaxed back into the chair, watching the doctors salivate for the story only he could tell.
The doctors began to clamor, speaking over one another as they lobbied a flurry of questions at him.
"Is there a formal social ostracization of these... 'Defectives' as you call them, who fail to achieve a complete phenotypic transition?" Dr. Breyer demanded.
"What is the estimated census of the fully mutated population?" another voice chimed in. "Are we looking at a tiered hierarchy of mutation levels, or is the transition binary?"
"Regarding your habitat—do you maintain a nomadic existence in the wilderness, or have you established permanent territorial infrastructures?"
"How was linguistic proficiency acquired?" Dr. Lee asked, his voice sharp. "Your genes are distinctly different from the human sequence, yet you maintain a perfect morphological mimicry. How did your kind learn to navigate our society so fluently?"
Mickey remained silent, his fingers thrumming a slow rhythm across the armrest.
"Speak," Dr. Lee ordered, staring at the silent creature.
"Why should I?" Mickey looked up, that irritating smile returning. "I don't do anything for free."
Collectively, the doctors knew this was the first subject to speak openly about their species. Dr. Lee knew the knowledge in this beast's mind would have an irrevocable impact on the survival of the human race. This was the ground floor of a war. A creature that could infiltrate their government and transform into a bloodthirsty beast was a terrifying thing to know. They needed to learn everything to eradicate this potential plague.
"You misjudged your situation," Dr. Lee said coldly. He turned his back to Subject 29. "Get Stone. This one needs a reminder."
"I want a private room," Mickey interrupted. "Access to all of the Defectives. Specifically, Subject 14." He looked to a lab geek. "What day is it?"
"August 31st," Dr. Breyer answered. He wasn't inclined to give in to demands, but he was willing to forego ethics for scientific curiosity.
Perfect timing, Mickey thought. September 2nd. "There's an event," Mickey dangled the carrot. "Hundreds of wolves and handfuls of Defectives will all be gathered. Imagine what you could learn by seeing our society during a large-scale event."
"So there are hundreds of you?" Dr. Lee said.
Mickey only grinned, shrugging.
"Now... there would have to be more than just hundreds," Lee speculated. "What is the total? Are there thousands? Millions of you?"
Mickey's lips remained sealed.
"There must be a line that we are unwilling to cross," one female doctor spoke up. "We are finding ourselves in the shoes of Nazis."
"It's a bit late for morals," another doctor snapped. "We've all broken our Hippocratic Oath."
"Subject 29 has shown a propensity toward sexual violence," a third doctor complained.
"We all know what will happen if we give him a private room. He shows signs of sexual psychopathy."
Mickey only grinned. He tilted his head back and enjoyed the ramblings of humans who couldn't understand what it meant to take a risk. He dangled a carrot, and they were clamoring to show what little humanity they had left.
Authors note:
Sorry for the delay. I am so sick right now. My head feels like it's going to explode. I'm going to try to get out some chapters out tomorrow. This lung infection is killing me right now. Don't forget to vote.